Collapse
by VerbTheNounAdjectively
Summary: An explosion leaves John and Sherlock trapped, facing each other's fears. Realizations and revelations are made, but declarations are much more difficult. Rated M for language and adult themes.  I am on hiatus for this story, I'm sorry, I'm so stuck. Just FYI.
1. Collapse

We were walking through London at midday when we heard the screaming, high and wailing and keening and awful. Everyone was running away from some unseen force and typically we ran towards it, full tilt, excitement and fear tingling through my every hair. I don't remember much else. All I know is that I'm now on the ground, pebbles and larger rocks dig into my back, I've got a splitting headache- a bright beam of light in the darkness is torture, and this man made of impossible thoughts lays compressed on top of me in this strange cage of dusk.

"John," he says quietly, deeply, "I need you to stay calm." I can feel the rumble of his throat gently vibrate through his chest on to mine. His breath is hot and tickles past my ear. He's breathing heavily. Is he scared?

"Sherlock," I say, keeping my voice at the same level. "What on Earth?"

"There's been an explosion. You've hit your head. You must stay awake," and the slight waver confirms it. He is scared. "A building collapsed and fell the wrong way. We're buried, John. You need to stay awake until help comes."

His words feel blurry, his throat rumbles and a small beam of light flashes down into his hair. Following the motes of dust on that jolly sunbeam shows me that digging our way out is impossible- thousands of pounds of concrete and steel and plaster are pushing in on us. His hair has gone near white with dust, and there's a smudge of black below his eye, high on his cheekbone. Moving my eyes hurts, so I focus again on his face which is only inches away from mine.

It's intimidating, how intelligent a man can be. He looks with a glance but sees absolutely everything. A small bit of shaving cream left behind an ear. He sees the slightest tan line. He can consider a scar and deduce the cause. With just a glance.

I lay underneath him and his full scrutiny is on me. Is he worried? He can see the entire world, its entire history with just a glance. What can he see when he focuses all of his attention? Can he see my pulse in my neck? He can probably hear it. I wouldn't be surprised if he could smell it. I am afraid my closely guarded secrets will tumble out by their own volition. Secrets I didn't know I had. Secrets that only dying people realize they might have.

Trying to control my instincts, my biological functions through my haze- my likely concussion. Is it possible to control one's pupils? No, the concussion will disguise such base desires. Can he smell the hormones rushing off of me? It's been so long. Excitement of death, of life never came in such a rush with any of my girlfriends as they are rushing now. Hormones rushing and running off of me like rain, subconscious scent screaming "PICK ME TAKE ME CHOOSE ME LOVE ME." Traitorous body. My pupils are out of my control from my bashed head and biological voracity. I feel out of control. My heart, my mind, my body.

That full scrutiny. The wrinkle of brow. The hitch in my breath. Reminder to self; we are currently trapped under thousands of pounds of concrete and steel. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear is the emotion to grasp right now. Fear and adrenaline should be seizing me, not this strange sensation of hunger.

I'm trying to return that gaze. See him how he sees me. In an instant, I see the world how I imagine he does. I can hear his breath, harsher than its normal steady pattern. His nostrils flare so slightly, subconsciously? Are my pheromones enough for him to smell? Those eyes, so blue, nearly black. His brows crinkled in such a way I've only seen when truly perplexed. A small, nearly invisible drop of sweat gathers on his severe cupid's bow. His bottom lip slowly, aided by his tongue, slides up over his top lip to capture the moisture.

He's dangerous. He's volatile. Sometimes I look at him and he's absolutely calm but I can never tell when he might burst into flames. Other times he is combusting around the room like a giant spark, and suddenly fizzles out, doused by water.

We lay there for ages. The plaster and rock and debris around us block sounds from the outside world, but gravity still works its magic around us. We can hear the creaking and the awful sound of heavy material hitting the ground. Might we be so unlucky that it decides to collapse on to us? We are tiny. We are miniscule. Giant minded and fragile bodied. The sunbeam moves away from Sherlock's hair and moves further down his back as time progresses. How is it possible for time to move when any moment might be your last?

"John." Sherlock says again, quietly.

"Sherlock."

He rests his head down above my shoulder and against my neck, "You must stay awake." Throaty rumbles accompanied by terrifying collapsing rumbles.

"I know."

Moments pass and there's only silence. Terrifying, abysmal silence.

"I'm scared, Sherlock."

"I can hear your heart."

One of my fears confirmed.

"As long as I can hear your heart, John, you know that we are both alive. Your heart beating keeps you alive, and as long as I know you are alive I know that I am alive. You know I am a logical man, but sometimes I fear my own existence. Sometimes, John, I fear that I do not exist outside of my own mind. You remind me that I do. When your heart beats and I can hear it and I can feel it, I know that I must also exist." He mutters it all so quietly into my throat, his voice barely above a whisper directly into my ear.

"I've doubted my existence so many times."

I turn my head towards him, slowly. Mindful of my injury. My head is still pounding but my heart feels like it's combusting.

His eyes are closed and his brow has relaxed.

"You're real, Sherlock. You are absolutely real. We are trapped under a fallen building that is only collapsing more. We can be destroyed in a single moment by a single column giving out. We are existing simultaneously, breathing the same stale air but we are not afraid our deaths. We fear that we never even existed in the first place."

"That's not exactly true, John." His lips are barely moving, but his words are clearer than any note of music I've heard and more terrifying than the sound of collapse.

"I fear your death. I fear what it might do to me. You're the first person to actually mean anything at all. You don't make sense, and my reality shouldn't be based on your proximity but it is. I'm only alive for as long as you can witness me, John."

"The frailty of genius, I believe you said."

"It's so much more than that. Even if I wasn't a genius, I think I'd still base just as much of my validity on your continuous life."

I am able to move a little bit. I slowly and carefully bring my arms up and around his waist. His arms are resting on either side of my head, his full weight pressing against me. He relaxes as I hold him and as he holds me the best he can.

He opens his eyes and looks into mine.

"How's your head?" every word still carries through his chest.

"Still here. Hurts a bit."

He lifts himself off of me a bit, but only to get comfortable. Who knows how long we'll be trapped. Who knows if we'll survive any rescue?

I am terrified more of this man and his thoughts than I am of dying. I carefully rub his back as I turn my head into a more natural position so I can maintain eye contact. It's getting darker and we still can't hear any sign of a rescue party. Our eyes have adjusted to the strange light, and Sherlock tells me,"Your heart is still racing. Normally humans are quick to adapt to disasters or sudden changes. They calm and learn to wait, but your heart will constantly speed again after a few moments of order. So you're either about to have a heart attack- which I doubt- or you have something you need to say but you're too afraid. John, we might die. I've already told you that I base my entire existence around the fact that your heart beats."

I retract my arms from around his waist as best as I can and squeeze them up between us. As I grab the lapels of his coat, I see that he's still thinking. Sod thinking. Sod vision. I don't think I can bear to see his face when he realizes what I'm trying to accomplish.

I can feel every muscle in his body against mine, and I can feel every word he speaks through my chest, and I can smell every breath and I can taste every thought.

Our lips touch, just for a moment. I realize how dry and cracked mine are from labored breathing compared to how wet and smooth his are from constant excursion of keeping himself from completely crushing me. He tries to pull back but my grip is too strong on his lapels. His thigh muscle is against my groin and I try so hard not to scare him.

"John…"

Crunch. "HELLO!" A stranger's voice high and resonate through our deadly fortress.

Help has come.


	2. Rescue

_Author's note: Collapse was the first fic I've written in about 12 years, and I honestly did not expect anyone to read a word of it. When I woke up and saw that I had a dozen notifications from I was absolutely touched. I was going to leave Collapse where I left it, but I was truly inspired to continue. Specifically, I dedicate this chapter to The Timelord's Consultant (and what a fantastic job that would be!) for their lovely review. Thank you for your kind words! _

_I suppose I should add a note to this chapter that I forgot to add to the first, that I definitely do not own anything you recognize here. Not even a broken teacup._

We're sitting together in the back of the ambulance, wearing matching orange shock blankets. Sherlock is still. It scares me. He has his elbows rested on his knees and his hands praying near his chin. He hasn't said a word.

Getting out of our prison was difficult. Just when I'd almost given up hope, just when I acknowledged what I so often denied, we were rescued. A woman with brown bushy hair tied up in a messy bun came yelling for us, yelling for anyone who might be trapped. She had been yelling for hours, she said, before anyone answered her. We were the only ones. Only survivors? Or the only ones stupid enough to get caught in the debris? I didn't bother asking, and I didn't want to know. Firefighters and paramedics kept yelling down that light shaft towards us, telling us to stay calm, not to move, telling us we were safe. Safe from what? Certainly not ourselves. I found that I was doing the talking; Sherlock was quiet and rested his head on my shoulder again, leaving me to navigate my mouth around his curls. I really must have thrown him off. I could kick myself. I could bloody jump into the Thames.

We're physically safe now. All around us we can hear various people yelling, searching for survivors. That terrible crunch and sometimes seeing bits of rubble cave in on its self. My mind wanders to the nature of supernovas, the compressing hydrogen into helium into carbon into iron, the weight becoming too much to bear and explodes into a fantastic nebula of radiation, gold, platinum, silver… Another column collapses and I wince to think that we might have been buried beneath.

I'd rather our own sun go supernova than have Sherlock look at me right now. I have a white bandage around my head, and I wish it came with a set of horse blinders so I could only see ahead. The sun is setting, all yellows and reds and pinks and oranges, followed by every blue and every black.

We don't see any other survivors pulled out from the wreckage.

"You boys are lucky. Now, it's up to you, you can go home or you can come with us to the hospital. We would LIKE to keep you in for observation, Doctor Watson but-" the EMT who saddled us with the blankets appeared out of nowhere and is currently looking into my eyes and feeling around the back of my head with no preamble.

"Doctor Watson will be fine with me, thank you. Would it be possible for you to drop us near Baker Street, if you're heading that direction?" The first words he's said since he murmured my name.

The ride home is tense. I'm strapped into the bed, "Workplace Health and Safety," I'm told. Sherlock is next to me, facing me, looking straight past me. He still has his hands up by his chin, his long legs angling his knees nearly to his shoulders in his low seat.

"Here we are, boys." I'm unbuckled and a sample of nurofen is pressed into my hands.

Sherlock waits me for as I am unloaded and helped to my feet. We're at the top of Baker Street; we don't have a very far walk at all.

The ambulance quietly pulls away, leaving Sherlock and I alone in the near dark, the street having gone to sleep hours ago. He takes a few paces and stops, never turning around. He lifts his elbow out slightly, inviting me to take hold. But God I am tired. I close my hand gently around his elbow and we slowly walk home. Have we ever walked so slowly? Our shoes make more conversation than we do. Clip. Clip. Clip. Oh to be walking. To be alive. To feel this cold and to feel the muscle of his arm beneath my hand. To see that one of us forgot to turn off the light in the lounge room, our window glowing ahead of us. Our home the only living being that we can see.

I try so hard not to look up at him. He's conscious of me, I cannot deny that. He's letting me use him as the cane I abandoned the second night I met him. I don't need the cane, but I do need him. I need him more than any other crutch. He slips his arm from my grasp and opens the door to 221B for us, holding it open and closing it once I've passed him. He's acting strangely gallant. Cold, aloof, polite and warm. He follows me up the stairs, and closes the apartment door as I trip my way over to the couch. It has bits of plaster on it. Is it from me? Or is it from target practice? I absentmindedly sweep some away, my left hand stiller than stone.

I look everywhere but him. Not that he's in the room. I can hear him in the kitchen, his breathing sounds labored. I hear him sniff. He clears his throat and sniffs again. Something just doesn't sound right. I don't even jump as I hear the sharp shattering sound of glass or porcelain. I don't remember standing, I don't remember navigating around the piles of junk, but I find myself in the kitchen with him.

He's not himself.

The electric kettle is on to boil and the tea service is on its tray, but Sherlock has come undone in such a frightening way. He's sitting on the floor, his knees up by his head but his prayer position is gone. He's leant forward, his arms covering his head between his knees and he is shaking. He is a little boy scared of monsters.

I step towards him and he recoils. "John, no. Don't. No." his voice is everywhere. Trying to command but ultimately breaking. His breathing is uneven and terrified. He looks at me, finally. His tears have been active for a while. How long as he been crying? How could I have not noticed? He was so stoic before, but we're home now. Home is where he allows himself to fear.

I'm on the ground with him, kneeling before him and his head is in my hands. My thumbs feel so clumsy as they move across his cheeks, clearing that black smudge and the tears from his face. My fingers dig gently into his hair and my heart wants to break as he closes his eyes and tries to look away.

"Sherlock, you're okay. We made it. We're alive."

He sniffs loudly and says, "You see, but you do not OBSERVE," leaving me just as confused as I was the first thousand times he said that to me.

His eyes open, still wet with tears but clearer. "I can read people. I can see people and their pathetic lies and lives. I know what they are like, and I know their motivators. I can't say I understand WHY they are motivated but I understand that they ARE. You're a mystery. I know you. I know you and I can read you but you baffle me, John."

He has hold of my jacket lapels.

"I've never… I have no interest. At all. I've never had interest. My life is simple in that regard. Today you woke something in me. You have no idea how dangerous that was. Up is down." His words are ghosting across my cheek, his nose bumping mine. I think I can smell something new, something added to Sherlock I'd never noticed before. Always it was the faint smell of his soap and toothpaste, always so clinically clean, but now I smell something so much more intimate. It screams the same as mine, "PICK ME TAKE ME CHOOSE ME LOVE ME." 


	3. Bzzbeeep

_Thank you again to my lovely reviewers, I was a bit stuck on this and got a bit tangled into some painting I was doing. I own nothing you see, but I do have some water on the boil for tea. Maybe the word Bzzbeeep could be mine._

_Dedicated to The Timelord's Consultant, lemonn and Clieo for being lovely and putting up with my childish excitement in reply to their reviews! I get a bit carried away. _

Click.

I nearly jump out of my skin, Sherlock flinches quite hard. The kettle, forgotten on the bench, has clicked off. Water is boiled for tea. I rest my hand on Sherlock's knee and use it as leverage to stand properly. I ignore the broken tea cup and fish out my most resilient mug, which has survived being dropped, thrown against the wall and even thrown out the window- in the name of Science of course. The flat is silent but for the soft tapping and scraping and pouring sounds that accompany the art of making tea.

Black, 2 sugars. White, no sugar.

Sherlock makes no move to stand, so I hand him his unbroken tea cup and slowly slide down the wall adjacent him. Silence but for sipping. We don't even have the pleasure of the drip drip drip of the tap or the tick tick tick of a clock. We did have a clock for a short while, but he wanted to find a way to make it tick more loudly and melodically, to use it as a metronome for when he composes. It didn't turn out well for anybody- Mrs. Hudson just sighed and took out of our rent.

As we finish our tea, completely oblivious to the movement of time, Sherlock stands slowly, sets his teacup on the bench and moves quietly to his room.

"Sometimes I don't speak for days on end, that wouldn't bother you would it?" was one of the first things he asked me. And it doesn't, not really. I think we could both do with some quiet.

I slowly wash out his tea cup and my mug. It's best just to do our dishes as we use them, otherwise our kitchen would become absolutely unlivable – I say this with full awareness of the knee and elbow joints in the freezer. To test mobility in extreme temperatures, I'm assured.

I find myself in my bedroom, listening to nothing at all. I'm too tired to shower but a bit nervous about sleeping. I don't know if I could interrupt Sherlock's reverie to ask him to help me. I suppose I could set a few alarms on my phone to wake me up once every hour, but there's no guarantee. I should have just gone to hospital this evening instead of trying to act all brave and stoic and unaffected.

I hear him outside my room, he did that intentionally. He knows where the floor boards creak.

"Come in, Sherlock."

"I haven't even knocked yet." He says as he opens the door with its usual quiet groan.

"Are you okay?" Stupid question to ask. He looks at me with those same three words written all over his face. But not unkindly.

"Every hour, is it?" He says clinically. I've accused him of reading minds before, but I really am surprised that he's taken the incentive. Maybe I shouldn't be. Maybe this is part of the so-called 'awakening'

"I was just going to set some alarms on my phone."

"That doesn't guarantee you'll wake up. Set the alarms and we'll wake up together."

Waking up together. Implying he'd sleep. We'd be sleeping together. Obviously… not in… certain capacities. But why am I bothering to get worked up? I know what he means, he knows I know what he means, but I can still smell that strange new quality on him.

The alarms are set and are on high volume, with the vibrate function on. I start to budge over when Sherlock swiftly steals my extra pillow and throws it on the ground.

"Sherlock, what are you doing? Don't be ridiculous. I won't have you throwing your back out sleeping on the floor." I know my words are stupid and condescending, he's fallen asleep in much stupider and back-cranking positions.

He settles himself on the floor and ignores me.

"Fine. Whatever." I'm too annoyed at his childishness to argue.

I turn off the lamp and try to sleep. I can hear him breathing. I can hear him thinking. He was quite right to tell Lestrade to 'stop thinking, it's annoying.' It IS annoying. I can hear the steady buzz of his mind, moving too quickly for me to make any sense of his thoughts but the whirring sound like speeding traffic is driving me mad.

"Stop thinking so hard." I hear him say.

"Me? What about you? I can't be expected to sleep with that racket you're making."

He chuckles.

The ferocious buzzing pauses, but slowly picks up, going faster than ever. I'm half tempted to throw my pillow over my head to block it out, but I know I'd really just block the sound of silence with the strange loud crunching of feathers and fabric smushing my ears.

An hour later and I hear an actual sound. Bzzbeeep. Bzzbeeep. Bzzbeeep. The first alarm of 6.

"I can still hear you thinking. Have you gotten any sleep?"

"Almost." I reply. An hour focusing on the sounds of breathing and thinking, almost meditation but with nerves and annoyance in place of relaxation. Fabricated tension from moment to moment, as if we both wanted to speak but were too polite to interrupt the silent roar of each other's minds. The first alarm somehow reduces the tension in my posture and know I'm in for a long night.

The second alarm comes much more slowly. I had actually fallen asleep, a black, quiet slumber with no thoughts, no dreams.

"John, are you awake?" Bzzbeeep. Bzzbeeep. Bzzbeeep.

I mumble into my pillow and roll closer to the edge of the bed, towards the stupid imbecile on the floor.

My legs are tangled in the blanket and I'm tiredly aware of my hand falling off the bed. Whatever.

The third alarm hasn't gone off yet. I had started to dream, of jumping between buildings made of cloud, black and full of thunder and lightning, chasing an even blacker silhouette with wings resembling a long coat. I don't know why I've woken up. The world of sleep is calling my name, much like rolling over to a softer bit of pillow. My hand is still hanging off the bed, feeling heavy. Heavier than usual. And rather warm.

Something is on my hand.

"Go back to sleep." A gentle squeeze. The words are more of a request than a demand, and I think no more on it.

"Mmpf."

"I'm getting in. It's too bloody cold down here."

Much more effective than any alarm. His hand holding mine is the warmest part of him, the rest is ice.

Too tired to be reasonable, to recoil, instead I wrap an arm around him.

The underlying buzzing from hours before is still there, but it's taken a new quality. It's much more relaxed now. From mad speeders late at night to lazy Sunday drivers- who can even justify a Sunday drive anymore with petrol prices these days? Stupid thoughts before drifting away on the raft of reeds across the river into tall grasses where beautiful young golden men and women share their joy with the Earth and the Sun. Picturesque celebrations with the terrifying black buildings shining with lightning approach, a sinister laugh on the wind going unnoticed.

Bzzbeeep. Bzzbeeep. Bzzbeeep.

"Fuck these alarms."

"They are necessary." His voice comes from somewhere near my chest. Ah, that explains the arm around me. His head is strangely heavy on my chest, as if his thoughts had physical weight.

"I don't want them," I come very dangerously close to whining.

"Stop whining."

My arm is around his shoulder. I am strangely wide awake but desperate for sleep during this third interval. I move my arm to accommodate him, and gently tousle his hair.

"It's such a relief, John. It's a relief to know that if I'm ever feeling existential, something so close by can bring me right back. It's actually incredible, listening to your heart. I can tell when you are asleep, I can tell when you are waking, but I want to know what exactly you're thinking about by only listening to your chest."

My hand has stilled. I am still grasping a few of his dusty curls, but I've lost myself in his words, his voice rumbling through me with just as much comfort as it had provided only hours before. I didn't think this conversation would continue. Ever.

"You're terrified, right now. There's no fear of death in this heart. I need some time, because I really don't know what you're scared of."

Though I'm warm and comfortable in my own bed in my home, he is absolutely right that I am terrified. I feel goose bumps break out along my forearms, down to my wrists and up into my shoulders, down onto my chest.

"Terror and… I really don't know. I don't want you to tell me. You've got gooseflesh." His arm is still wrapped around me, his long fingers fiddling with the fist I wasn't aware I had formed beside my hip. I remember my other hand in his hair and slowly pat down the curls.

Silence.

Somehow, I think he's fallen asleep. His breathing has evened out and his hand has found its way into my fist, clutching at my fingers.

The rest of the night goes with only the scheduled Bzzbeeeps of my mobile and quick confirmations that I have indeed, woken.


	4. Alone

_This chapter took me much longer to write than the others, strangely. It's shorter than any other I've written for this story, but I hope it fulfills expectations. If my writing style seems to be changing, please bear with me- I'm still just getting back into the writing game and trying to find my groove. I'll probably go back and heavily re-re-re-edit my earlier chapters to make it all a bit more uniform._

_I dedicate this chapter to my lovely reviewers, to every person who has set this story (and me as an author!) to their alerts and favourites. It means so much to me, I get a bubble of joy in my throat every time I get an email from . _

_I own nothing you recognize ( nor a slightly obscure reference you might not recognize) but I appreciate sunshine._

The sun is too bright through the drawn curtains. My head feels too much for my neck to bear, my shoulders are being compressed by the memory of thousands of kilos of rubble, I'm sweating and shivering, my mouth tastes awful, and I can't hear a single thing but for a ringing in my ears and actual traffic going past on the street below. I am an absolute wreck. I smile despite my pain and discomfort. I smile –because- of my afflictions, but quickly turn it into a frown as I realize something terribly important.

Sherlock isn't with me. It's quite late in the morning, or even early afternoon by how much sunshine is trying to assault me.

There's nothing I want more than to stay in bed, but I have things to do today. What, I'm not sure. A shower wouldn't go amiss. I'm still dusty and sore and tired, the hot water will do me good. I have that awful smell sick people carry with them, I'm used to it from the clinic but I cannot stand it on myself. It's like human biology forgot that we can have predators, that smell of stink and sweet calling to them, 'I'm weak, come and get me.'

I grab the corner of the sheet and drag it off the bed as I get up. There is no way I will be sleeping on such filthy, sweated in sheets tonight. Laundry, another important mission. Dull, boring, domestic. Brilliantly domestic. If things had gone just a little differently yesterday, I wouldn't need to change my sheets today. Or, I wouldn't be able to. Or, I never would again. Gooseflesh breaks out on my neck at this thought, each one a wonderful reminder that yes, I feel pain, I feel an indefinable fear, but mostly that I am bloody well alive. I don't need to listen to a heartbeat to know this. My head and shoulders throb like a stubbed toe, my mouth tastes like gargled shit and I smell like a corpse. It's a beautiful day.

I strip the pillow cases off the pillows, watching as dust falls from each of them. Crumbs of building are now making a home in my bed. I should flip the mattress or Hoover it, but it can wait. Bathrobe, slippers, towel, and my grimy clothes from yesterday. Feeling vaguely Arthur Dent, but my arms are full of sheets and blankets to be laundered. My mattress is definitely not named Zem.

I shuffle my way towards the washroom where my shower and washing machine wait for me. The flat is silent but for the scuff of my slippers on the lino. I take a peek in the lounge room and the kitchen on my way, but there's no sign of Sherlock. His coat and scarf are hung on their pegs, so he must still be home; though it IS a beautiful day, perhaps he didn't feel the need to cover up like usual. I've seen him take interest in the beauty of the sky once, staring at the cosmos and appreciating what it might mean. It's the only time I've really seen him appreciate the beauty in nature. Would a near-death experience be enough to make him appreciate being alive today as much as I do, or would he be spiraling into boredom again? Maybe he's back at the collapse, solving the mystery of why and how. Or maybe he's just in his bedroom.

I unravel the terribly ugly bandage from around my head and wince as my fingers lightly brush the goose egg on my scalp. The water is so hot it burns and quickly turns my chest and shoulders bright red, another reminder that my body is here and now. The suds in my hair and hands quickly turn brown, as I gently massage my head, warranting a second wash. I take a long time getting the filth out of my hair, off my body, out of my mouth. I've used up all the hot water and I feel better, but not completely. I start the wash for my linens, cold wash, and shuffle back to my room in my towel, filthy clothes waiting on the washroom floor waiting their turn for washing.

Sherlock has been in my room. My bed has been made with new, fresh sheets and covers I haven't seen before, shades of tan, chocolate and burgundy. I wonder if he thought to flip the mattress or Hoover it for me as well. My laptop is in the middle of the bed, open and turned on with a word document open. I roll my eyes, wondering if he knew how dangerous it was to block the fan vents on a soft surface. I also wonder… How strange of him to make my bed for me. I've certainly never seen this particular bedspread before. Did he buy them for me?

I ignore looking at what's written, instead focusing on what windows are open: Google, Wikipedia and strangely, Urban Dictionary.

Typed out in my default font with a blinking cursor behind the last character has 4 simple words that scream. My heart speeds. My head throbs. My mouth dries, my hands still. I sit on the floor and drag the laptop towards me and onto my crumpled legs. I look at what he's been searching and the pain in my head gets worse as the grip in my chest tightens. Back to the words on the screen. Confusion and apprehension and that same unknown fear crushes and spins me.

A gentle knock at my open bedroom door, and he is behind me. I feel his eyes on me as I stare at the computer screen, innocently informing me of something I'd only found yesterday.

_I've figured it out._


	5. Whiplash

_Two in a night! Major thanks to Kerttu for keeping me company while I worked on this one! Also, there's a bit more swearing in this one. I've changed the rating of this story; it's heading into territories I hadn't expected. I've also changed the summary and I'm contemplating a name change. I seriously did not expect to continue on with this story with this sort of ferocity!_

_I own nothing. I am, however, queen of carsick._

"It's definitely a type of fear, isn't it John." He says more so than asks. "You've never felt so scared and you invaded Afghanistan," repeating an old joke with no humor in his voice.

"You've never felt this kind of fear, which only increases your anxiety. The chemistry is all there, it's all correct, how could I have not seen it before?" His voice is deep; it reawakens the gooseflesh I've been getting far too frequently. His voice sounds too distant with that tone. That tone of voice belongs near the vicinity of my neck, or my chest. God, what the hell am I thinking?

"The hypothalamus, responsible for the fight or flight reflex is working overtime, fear of the unknown. That's it, isn't it? You thought you knew something, but it's changed. A redefinition of fear and of…" Sherlock trails off, leaving the last word unsaid as if he's only just realized he was speaking out loud.

"And of what, Sherlock." My voice sounds hard and angry. I don't want it to, but it does. "A redefinition of what." I close the laptop, a bit too hard, and place it a bit more gently on the cold floor. I stand and refuse to turn around to face him. I almost feel military in my posture and though I feel ridiculous wearing just my towel, I realize it's my best defense to be a soldier right now. My pulse is pounding through my head and ears, pressure building on the lump on the back of my head ready to boil over in an explosion of white noise.

I do not want him to tell me what's changed for me. I can't stand the thought of that bridge being approached, never mind eventually crossed and likely burned. I think back to being crushed under him and the building, to looking into his eyes only centimeters away with his back against the refrigerator and his fear etched out across his face. Fear that was not angry or panicked, but slow and accumulative. Last night held the fear of sadness, and I wasn't its only victim.

I still stand at attention, my eyes closed tight against the intrusive light, against him. I resolutely face the wall across from my bed, my back to the doorway. Silence. Silence. I can't be sure if he's still behind me or not, but I refuse to check.

I distantly hear the door downstairs closing with a resolute click. He's left 221B. I find myself at the window peeling the curtains back, wincing at the bright light, and look down at his sharp figure lighting a cigarette- how did he find them?- and pacing quite quickly away from me.

He's not yet around the corner when my mobile buzzes across the room. I tear myself from the window just as he disappears behind the corner building. Bzzzzzztbzzzzzztbzzzzzt. Mycroft.

"Yes?" I say, perhaps a bit rudely.

There's no chewing the fat with Mycroft. He cuts to the heart of the issue like a surgeon cuts through flesh.

"I have two questions for you, Doctor Watson. Question the first, what has upset my brother? Question the second, where the hell did he find the cigarettes?" his voice drawls, toying somewhere between annoyance and amusement.

"It's nothing you have to concern yourself with, Mycroft. And secondly, the fags were hidden." My voice still sounds angry. I feel tense and angry, I feel threatened.

"Were they somewhere really obvious?" Droll droll droll.

"No. They we-"

"Were they hidden on the 7th brick up on the right hand side in the fireplace?" he interrupts me.

I say nothing.

"That is the definition of obvious, John," he definitely sounds amused.

"Well he's found them. There's not much I can do about it but hide them better next time."

"Please don't put them in the skull. He's likely to find them on accident if you put them there."

"Well where would you suggest?" I'm getting quite irritated.

"Should I send a car?"

"You don't normally ask," I say, making my way back to the window. I see the black car roll up as I twitch the curtains open.

"Asking is just a courtesy. I'll see you in a few minutes, John." I don't hear the line disconnect, but I know its gone dead. How the hell does he have it at my door so quickly? The driver and Anthea must live in that car; just around the corner from us to always make it here so quickly. Does Mycroft have that sort of power? Probably. Ridiculous.

I'm furious. Threatened and scared and confused.

I take my time getting dressed because as far as I'm concerned, Mycroft and Anthea can bloody wait.

Anthea is fidgeting with her mobile when I get into the car, not even looking up to acknowledge there was someone with her.

"Do you ever get carsick, doing that?" I think back to my childhood, driving with my parents in the countryside. My mum and I would take turns in the front passenger seat because of the carsickness that would take me. I couldn't sleep or read in the car, not for a long time. Afghanistan cured me of that.

"Mmm. No," she says. I can never tell if she's lying or even listening. I don't really care.

Mycroft is waiting for us at our destination, a beautiful and elegant home that I do my best to ignore. I don't feel like being impressed. Ancient trees and lush grass mean nothing to me right now.

We settle into a pair of overstuffed armchairs deep in the heart of the manse, in a rather plainly decorated but still very elegant room featuring mahogany hardwood, tall windows and red velvet. Is he trying to placate me? Tea is set down between us and we are left alone. I say nothing.

Mycroft sips his tea quietly but looks at me pointedly. I raise my eyebrow a bit and rest my chin in my hand. It's as if we're having a conversation with our eyebrows after a few minutes of this, his getting higher and higher, mine are twitching up and down in response, readjusting my posture and hand to stay comfortable. The pressure on the back of my head has abated a bit, but I still feel cross. In fact, I feel utterly ridiculous partaking in this farce but I will not be the first to break this silence. An ironic sort of smile is a very real danger at this point. My tea sits untouched while Mycroft keeps his nearly constantly at his mouth. I want to accuse him of cheating, but that would acknowledge this stupid game we're playing.

This long and awful, ridiculous silence is broken by the door swinging open and Sherlock strolling through.

"Ah John. I thought I'd find you here. Come, we have to go." He adjusts his gloves but doesn't look at either of us.

I nod curtly to Mycroft and leave the house as fast as I can, following in Sherlock's wake. This man will give me whiplash.

"Lestrade called, he heard about yesterday. Wants to ask us a few questions. Is that what Mycroft wanted?" He holds the cab door open for me but doesn't look at me once.

"Yeah." I lie easily.

My tone must have caught him off guard. He's all leg as he gets into the cab; I've never seen him so clumsy, like a puppy tripping on its oversized paws.

He finally faces me, with a look on his face that is calculating and amused. I feel angry and trapped. How dare he look so damned superior, like his stupid brother.

"Is your head hurting you, John?" His voice sounds concerned but his face still pisses me off with that expression.

I sigh in a way that makes it bloody obvious that my head is putting me through hell.

A small foil package of tablets lands in my lap with a cheeky rattle, I look up and and a bottle of water appears from the depths of his coat and is pressed into my hands. Careful not to touch me.

I wonder, briefly, how he can keep such a sizeable object in his jacket and still have it look so slender and well fitted on his thin frame. I swallow the unidentified tablets and chase them with the room temperature water. I fit the bottle between my knees and cross my arms. I stare out the window. I refuse to thank him.

"Those could have been anything." He muses.

"Yup."

"As a doctor, you should have asked what they were." He leans towards me, a calculating look on his face.

"As your friend, I trust you," I find myself saying as I continue to ignore his gaze, pretending that the world outside has my complete attention.

"Should you?" his hand lands softly on my knee. The steady thrum on the back of my head only speeds up, but doesn't become completely unbearable as it had earlier.

I really have no answer. Probably not.


	6. Rain

_I didn't get around to writing this one as soon as I would have liked due to a 6.5 hour long hospital trip that didn't accomplish anything, and then I had a very VERY long chat with a friend who has just lost a grandparent, and then I decided to torture my scalp and hair with bleach. I was sick of only having a purple patch and decided to dye the rest of my hair blue. Oh, and then I painted a scene from this story because I just couldn't not paint it. Sorry for the delay and if this particular chapter isn't quite up to snuff. Life is distracting._

_As usual, I own nothing. Well, I have a watercolour painting._

"Just as well. They were given to you last night. You forgot them on the bench while you made tea." He says after regarding my silence. He says this rather too flippantly after insinuating he may have poisoned me.

That's it.

"Why do you have to be so **damned** dramatic?" My outburst startles him judging by the flutter in his hand on my leg. "You and Mycroft both. You're both just so fucking desperate to make an impression, even well after it's been made. Mycroft and his stupid car, and your obsession with your own brilliance! Sorry Sherlock, we aren't all geniuses. Most of us are nowhere near your level and you just hold it above our heads, like we should be so much cleverer than we are. If you're trying to make a point, just… just spell it out for me." I don't even know what I'm trying to say anymore; I'm just tired. My day started off painfully but I was so happy, but now I just want a cuppa and some shit telly to lose myself in.

His hand tightens on my knee. We sit in silence for a moment or two, and when he speaks it's low, quiet and clinical. I focus on his voice but refuse to look anywhere but out the window. The sun is low in the sky and blinding me as it flashes brilliant orange between buildings, adding to my scowl.

"Friendship; love. Romantic, platonic, aromantic, whatever. People categorize their friends into groups all the time. Acquaintances, enemies, colleagues, lovers, friends, best friends, brothers, comrades in arms. They all have a definition. Maybe what you're scared of is your redefinition of me. And I don't blame you for being apprehensive, I'm not easy to categorize. People far more qualifications than you have been trying to find a word for me for years. But whatever word you settle with, I want you to know its fine. It's all fine."

"What on Earth do you mean what _I'm _scared of? Why couldn't you just tell me this like a normal person? Why does everything have to be cat and mouse with you? Why do you try so hard to be so mysterious all the time?" I'm aware that I'm starting to yell and it's hurting my head.

"You wrote that stupid message; you left your searches open, you made my bed with new sheets and then you ran away. You keep running away. NO, don't talk right now, I'm not done." His hand is sliding off my knee as he clears his throat slightly as if to speak- making my point exactly- but I grasp it and keep it there as my own personal anchor. The sun is still bright and blinding and the pain tablets aren't working at all.

I take a deep breath and say a bit more calmly, "You ran away from me and made me think you were dead. You couldn't physically run, so you closed up when we could have died last night. You ran away from me after tea. You ran away from me this morning and set up a trap- and yes, it was a trap for me to fall into. Of course I'm going to look at what you've left open and running on my fucking computer and left specifically for me to see- only to run. And now? Now you're running away _again_. And it isn't like you," I squeeze his captured hand harder and harder as I speak, getting angry all over again. His hand is becoming clammy and slick with sweat in mine.

"I've never seen you run from anything. What is so damn scary about me?" I force myself from the window to finally look at him.

A look of pure concentration is on his face, as if I'm a very interesting corpse. His brow is furrowed, lips pursed and his nostrils are flared. His eyes are what catch me the most- they are the colour of a storm rolling in at dusk, reminding me of the blackness that took them over as we waited for rescue. He squeezes my hand and pulls me towards him, bringing our hands between our faces which are suddenly much closer.

"Everything," he whispers as we pull up in front of Scotland Yard. Our conversation is finished for now, but his eyes have a look of promise to continue.

By the time we're allowed to leave after giving our official police statements it's well into evening. The beautiful blue sky of the afternoon had turned black but for the reflection of city lights on low hanging, dripping clouds. The fine day I woke up to has disappeared into darkness and rain.

We've not said anything directly to each other except to collaborate our stories. At one point Donovan and Anderson were being quite obnoxious and I couldn't help but smile as Sherlock called them out in his usual way.

My limp is back, it seems. Give me 'run for your life' instead of 'let's brood and tiptoe around tension' any day. When I finally get outside, Sherlock is standing under a street light and has just lit a cigarette. He looks strange and ethereal, his coat collar flipped up as normal, his hair collecting rain drops glowing orange and blue in the night. Sharp shadows are thrown across his face, hollowing out his eyes, cheeks and Cupid's bow. He inhales deeply on his cigarette, throwing his features into even starker contrast. Black but for the strange blue-y orange glow of his forehead, nose, cheekbones and mouth. As frustrated as I am with him, I can't help but admire the picture in front of me, like a masterful watercolour. The rain beats down a bit harder, and I'm surprised that his cigarette stays alight at all.

"John. Let's walk," he nearly orders.

I stand still. 'I'm not your lapdog you self absorbed bastard,' I think.

"Please." As if this was on the same page of him asking for his fags back.

I take a few steps towards him and he notices I'm limping. He frowns and steps out of the lamplight and towards me. Much like the night before, he offers me his elbow to assist me. I look at his offered arm warily. Today has just been strange. Of course I've had stranger days, but I don't think I've waffled so much on where I stand with this infuriating man.

I decide not to take his arm and soldier on without a crutch.

"You know, I woke up feeling so happy. I was in a world of pain but I was bloody happy to be alive. And if you could just… get over yourself, I'm sure the rest of my day would have gone just as well. For a man so set on facts you can be infuriatingly cryptic." I say ironically cheerfully as we walk in the rain. I'm tired of ignoring him and I'm tired of looking the other way. I'm looking up at him as we walk past street lamps and darkened buildings sharpening and softening his face in their lights. A taxi with its bright yellow light temporarily blinds us and slows down, kindly offering us a ride out of the rain but I wave him on.

After a few moments of silence, Sherlock flicks his cigarette butt to the curb. Without warning, I find myself in his grip, being pulled to the nearest wall and shoved against it, but not so hard that I hit my head again. One of his hands is on the front of my jacket and the other against my cheek and he's so close. His brow is furrowed and he looks terrifyingly angry. Droplets of rain weigh down his curls until they fall down into his eyes. Water cascades from his hair down his cheeks and towards his throat and chin, each glowing variants of orange and blue.

"EVERYTHING about you is terrifying," his voice is low and harsh, his eyes that dark stormy blue and all I can smell is wet pavement, tobacco and that screaming desperate scent from before. I can feel the hand on my face trembling, and he takes a tentative step closer.

"Then face your fucking fears, Sherlock," and I force my way out of his grip, my heart is pounding and my head is still killing me.

"Face your fears, don't pin them up against a wall and overpower them, face me head on and I'll show you exactly how scary I can be."


End file.
